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I’m no one’s bride, but I don’t bother correcting Redhead. I’m living with Des, making love to Des, and I’m bonded to Des. A ring and a piece of paper seem like superfluous details at this point.

“Why does he keep calling you ‘Bastard’?” I ask Des when his roguish friend leads us toward one of the grimy tables.

The noise of the tavern escalates once more.

“Because I am one,” Des says.

“I thought you knew your father,” I say. In the book I’d read, hadn’t it stated the King of the Night was born into the royal harem? Wouldn’t he have known his father if this were the case?

“I found out who he was when I was a teenager,” he says. “Before that,” Des continues, “I was referred to asthe Bastard.”

Blood drains from my face. “I’ve called you that,” I say, mortified. I had never considered the term as an actual label.

Des’s friend stops at a table, and Des and I slide in.

“Cherub,” he says, his voice low, “I assure you, it’s fine.”

I don’t feel fine about it.

The Bargainer’s redheaded friend sits across from us, thumping the table. “Three meads,” he calls out to the bartender at the back of the room.

When his attention returns to us, his eyes twinkle. “Desmond, my old friend, you’ve not officially introduced me to your mate.”

Des leans an arm on the sticky wooden surface. He looks over at me. “Callie”—he gestures to Redhead—“this no-good son of a bitch is Phaedron. Phaedron, this is my mate, Callypso.”

Phaedron takes my hand. “It truly is a pleasure,” he says, his voice turning serious.

Not knowing what else to do, I nod, giving his hand a squeeze. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Phaedron is clearly another of Des’s old friends, which is baffling to me. I’m still getting used to the fact someone like the Bargainerhasfriends—and technically more of them than me.

That’s somehow really depressing.

A new group of fairies enters the bar. Most are women, though there are two men among them. They walk through the room, their outfits low-cut and largely transparent. All of them move from table to table, their hands gliding over the shoulders and arms of many patrons.

Phaedron sees me staring. “Prostitutes,” he says.

I give him a look. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

I swear I have a filter. I just don’t always use it.

Phaedron breaks into a smile, eyeing me up and down. “And the Bastard found his match.” He leans forward. “Tell me, Desmond, are all human women this feisty on earth?”

Des flashes him a rakish smile. “Only the best ones.”

“Aye!” Phaedron laughs. “And they’re firebrands in bed!”

I raise my eyebrows at that.

The conversation is interrupted by the bartender, who drops off our drinks. I make a moue of disappointment as I stare at the glass of amber liquid set in front of me.

Still can’t drink.

On the other side of the room, one of the patrons whistles. “My king!” he calls out, leaning back in his seat. “When are you going to come over and greet an old friend?”

A slow, lazy grin snakes across Des’s face. “I was hoping to avoid that fate,” he shouts back.

I watch all this in wonder. I’m seeing yet another side of Des, one that’s crude and raw and rough around the edges. I don’t say it, but right now he reminds me of all the Politia officers and bounty hunters I worked with as a private investigator. I’m not surprised to find I like this side of him a great deal, despite his crassness.